


Five Golden Rings

by badgerpride89



Series: Five for Fighting [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Parents Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), The Horsemen as Family, aziraphale and crowley raised the horsemen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerpride89/pseuds/badgerpride89
Summary: A series of short Advent Calendar fills following the five horsemen and their parents after the Apoca-not.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Death & Famine & Pestilence & Pollution & War (Good Omens)
Series: Five for Fighting [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1451032
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this 2019 Ineffable Advent Calendar: https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189391982184/drawlight-drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for  
> Days will be filled in as they are finished.

"Why are we doing this?" Pollution asks Kushiel as they scatter the green sprigs (plastic in Pollution's case; they don't get along well with any greenery they would like to remain green) throughout the room.

Kushiel tucks a piece of white hair behind her ear. "Because it's fun, Sachiel. Just think of it as tasteful littering, okay?"

Pollution narrows their eyes but continues without complaint. For a moment at least. "Won't Dumah hate it? Tasteful?"

Kushiel laughs, all wheezing crackles. "Yep. War too. That's part of the fun."

Pollution shrugs as they finish. Kushiel surveys the room with a critical eye, nods at her iWatch, and pulls Pollution in for a hug. "It's gonna be great. Trust me."

Pollution rests their head against Kushiel’s. "I do."

* * *

Pollution and Kushiel are sitting at the bar, Pollution drinking what could best be described as battery acid while Kushiel sips a pink vintage the bartender only just found in her stores, when Famine and War show up. Famine kisses them both on the cheeks.

War rolls her eyes at Kushiel as she plops onto the empty stool. “Mistletoe? Really?” she drawls as she fiddles with the sprig.

Kushiel smiles mysteriously.

“They’re plastic,” Pollution points out.

War gives her a quaint, sharp smile as she tosses the sprig onto the floor.

Several patrons, already rowdy with hunger, dive for the plastic monstrosity and begin fighting over it. Literally. It becomes a dust cloud in a matter of seconds. Police will be required to separate them.

“Well, they’re not fighting over you for once,” Famine tells War and raises his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” War says and chugs her drink.

Beyond the bar, beyond the fighting in the main dining area of the Ritz, an angel and a demon kiss one another softly, once, twice, then squeeze each other’s hands all through dinner. They each will pocket a piece of mistletoe.

Pollution smiles softly and silently toasts them.


	2. Snow

Famine loves this time of year. Clean, cold, and blindingly white snow sits undisturbed across the landscape. It’s the perfect peace of a world gone quiet, the closest he will ever get to a world without humans calling his name every five seconds. He stares out the windows hungrily as the sun peeks over the streets and buildings.

Pollution sits next to him, the couch springs squeaking loudly with the additional weight. The moment breaks. Famine sighs and turns to them. Pollution’s fingers twitch and twist in their lap, they’re hunched over, and their white eyes look everywhere but him.

Pollution hates this time of year. The snow is clean, cold, and perfectly, blindingly white.

He nudges their knee with his own. “Want to go mess it up?”

They nod.

Famine stands and snaps his fingers. Their warm horsemen riding leathers appear over their clothes. He holds out a hand and Pollution takes it. They ride the elevator to the hotel’s bottom floor and vanish, reappearing in a nearby park.

Together, they stomp and kick a muddy, gray line of footsteps through the grass, Pollution coming more and more alive with each crunch and exposed layer of grime. Famine stops on a small outcropping behind a few sparse trees. Pollution gathers snow by the armful and begins compacting some into a large round shape. Famine thinks he’s getting soft in his old age because he kneels and helps.

They work in silence for a few minutes before Pollution says, “We used to do this all the time. Father and Da and me.”

Famine nods, unable to really say anything.

“Did you?”

He shakes his head. “Snow hadn’t been invented then,” he says instead of the truth.

They have a snow creature, because it’s not a person but also not an amorphous blob, when Pollution hits him square in the jaw with a snowball. They smirk at his reaction.

Oh, it is on.

“Don’t go easy on him, nibling,” War calls as she and Kushiel cross the crescent towards them, a cricket bat casually resting on her shoulder. No doubt Kushiel has some new fad treat for them. “He can take it.”

“You call that easy?” he retorts.

She grins like a shark. “You missed the winter of ‘38.”

Pollution lobs another snowball, this aimed squarely at War’s bat. It hits with a hard clang and breaks apart, revealing the rock in the center. War raises an eyebrow at Famine as she shifts her stance and Kushiel darts out of the way.

The fight goes for several long minutes, alliances forged and broken so quickly they might as well have been on their own sides. Pollution whoops as they duck away from one of Famine’s snowballs (compared to his siblings’, they are too small and break too easily, so he’s really not getting a fair shake at this fight) and snuffs when one lands right on War’s hairline, the snowball slowly melting down her face.

“Guys, wait a mo’,” Kushiel calls and gestures at them. Wiping the water from his scarf, Famine trudges to his sister to see what has her so excited.

Ma and Father are walking along the concrete path, huddled close together and speaking in low tones. There’s an open and carefree lilt to their steps, the kind he only remembers from his childhood, before everything went according to the Plan. As an adult, he finds it disgustingly cute.

War pauses, an unusually tender smile on her face. Kushiel leans into Famine, sighing. Pollution looks back and forth.

“Should we..”

War shakes her head. “Not this time. It’s their first, let ‘em have it.”

Famine finds himself agreeing, strangely enough. They turn back towards the snow abomination when a snowball goes whizzing by and clonks Ma square in the back. He yelps and leaps around towards them, hellfire and damnation in his eyes.

“Oi, you lot, what the bloody hell was that for?” he yells as he charges up their hill.

“Uh oh,” War observes, half sarcastic, half frightened as she gathers more ammunition. Kushiel shrieks as Ma darts up to her and, quick as a snake, drops a huge snowball down her jacket. Pollution comes to her aid with a perfect shot at Ma’s sunglasses.

Famine can’t remember the last time he had so much fun mucking things up.

A safe distance away, Aziraphale watches the proceedings, a bright, content smile on his face. “Thank you, my dear,” he says to the empty air beside him.

 **I'm happy to help.** Death replies as a snowball smacks into Aziraphale.


	3. Nutcracker

"He bugging you, sweetheart?" War says as she steps between the hunched, cringing woman at the bar and the far too obvious man in her face.

The man pauses for a moment. Takes in War's dog tags, muscular shoulders, and predatory smirk. And does something stupid. Ah, well, she's used to it by now. Six thousand years have lowered her expectations straight to hell and below.

She grabs his wandering hand in a vice grip, twists until he starts begging, then knees him in the crotch for good measure. She's just doing her good deed for the decade, removing his genes from the pool; humanity should thank her for it.

His buddies take offense to her. The nearby women who have had to deal with them all night take offense to them taking offense.

War loves the sound of bones breaking in time to Mannheim Steamroller's Carol of the Bells. 


	4. Cranberry

"Happy winter," Kushiel calls as she enters Da's flat. "Which one are we celebrating this year?"

"How did you get in here?" He asks, sputtering a little as she meets him in the office. He's clearly been brooding, the plants are all shaking in the next room and he's wearing sunglasses in the dark.

She feeds him a dark, amused look. "You really want to go over that when I've got this?" She asks as she brings the large bottle of wine into view and hands it to him.

He takes it, reads the label, and scoffs at her. "Cranberry wine?"

She grins toothily at him. "I've seen Dad's stores, you two need to branch out more. One of the women from my mommy and me club suggested it."

"It's called taste, try it sometime," Da snipes but miracles the good glasses onto the desk so Kushiel knows he doesn't really mean it.

"It's called being a snob," she shoots back as she pulls off her scarf and sits on a newly materialized pink plush chair.

"You say that like that's a bad thing," he says as he pops the cork and begins filling the glasses.

She hmms a little. "It's a new world, time for seeing and trying new things, thought you two were all into that."

"Don't go there," he says as he takes a deep drink and coughs around the taste. 

She laughs at the face he makes and sips her own. "Why not? You don't have forever."

"Oh, thank you, I didn't bloody know that we've only got a couple centuries if we're lucky."

She stares at her glass, tapping it with her index finger. "You remember 1938?" She asks softly. 

That year, well the preceding century, really, had been rough on her. She'd been tired and ready to be done with it all, the Apocalypse, the Divine Plan, her place in it. And her desire to rebel had taken her straight to the source. Even after everything, he had taken her in once more, sheltering her through the years her retirement took to cement. He'd better remember, he still has the bottle she brought that winter. Judging from his look, he does.

"It feels like it did then," she continues gently, "Not exactly the same but close. It only takes one. They have the means to corral Sachiel and Dumah. They'll find the will soon."

"Before the next antichrist?" 

He looks at her like he wants to believe but can't. She understands. 

She nods. "They've defied the odds before. Have a little faith."

He rolls his eyes. "Came to the wrong parent for faith."

"No, I didn't."

They sit in companionable silence. It really is good wine.

"Better than the swill you brought back then," he grudgingly admits. 

"I was young and didn't know any better," she says, "You're the one who drank and kept it."

"So I am." 


	5. Fire

War stands outside the bookshop, surveying it with a critical eye. The humans pass her by, along with the complicated symbols and circles which float in front of her. She can hear merry sounds within, her Dad and Ma clucking over some weird piece of human trivia. That’s fine. She doesn’t mind.

She turns her full attention on the shop’s wards. She twists and pulls a little, adds her own symbol and ferocity to them. She teaches them to recognize an attack and the appropriate response, she finds every line and tests and retests it after each addition.

“What do you think?” she asks as she comes out of her trance.

 **It needs more right here** , her brother replies as he extends one bony finger and traces new glyphs. He’s sloppier about it. Dad taught her back in the Beginning while Azrael was off staring at the stars or watching bugs die. But his designs are functional and don’t clash with all the previous work. That is what matters. 

She nods approvingly. “No mercy. Nice. I can get behind it.”

**Those who would attack them don’t deserve it.**

War breathes deeply and releases the wards, feels the foundation shift under their new shape. Dad comes rushing out a second later.

“What in the worl-”

“It’s not pretty but the place won’t burn again,” she interrupts as she shoves her hands into her jacket pockets. 

“You neutralized holy water as well?” he asks, awed.

War shrugs. “Not hard when you break it down,” she says, trying to hide the warm pride that still blooms under his praise. It's not hard; she can break down weapons in her sleep. Has done, too.

“Thank you, my dears,” he says with a bright smile.

War turns away from him. Azrael dips his head and vanishes.

“Tell Ma I haven’t touched his apartment without his permission,” she says as she makes to leave.

“Camael.”

She grits her teeth. “It’s War. Or Carmen if you have to choose another name.”

“Won’t you come in for a moment?”

She turns her head to look at him. “And what do you expect will happen?”

What will this change, she is silently asking.

“You and your Ma will get into a rather loud and lengthy argument about something philosophically irrelevant and try to burn my shop down testing your wards,” Dad replies with an amused smile. “I do know you both, dear girl.”

“And you still want me in there with him.”

“There’s a hot cocoa with your name on it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you have special mugs for each of us.”

“Then I shall not. Are you coming?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” she replies and steps around her father into his shop for the first time in almost two centuries.


	6. Sleigh Bells

“It’s _sleigh_ bells, not slay bells,” someone shouts as War races by on her bike, bells jingling annoyingly as she almost sideswipes a few pedestrians. Famine pulls alongside her with a grin gestures for another race. She salutes him and they fly down the street, tires screeching and leaving property damage and bad moods behind them.

War loves it. She’s missed her little brother these long centuries, they’re just pulled in too many different directions too often. The apocalypse may have been aborted but it has given them a much needed breather and time together.

They brake suddenly when they reach the designated parking lot, though they each park in one of the many car spaces rather than the designated bike area. War undoes her braid as Famine straightens and smooths his clothes.

“Honestly,” she says, rolling her eyes and shoving him lightly. He glares and bites at her hand, only half serious, as they walk.

“You’re late,” Pollution calls as they and Kushiel come into view at the gardens’ visitor center.

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone,” War drawls as she gives Pollution a side hug and Kushiel smiles at them.

“Azrael’s with them already,” she says as she pulls War into a proper hug.

“Then let’s not keep them waiting,” Famine says and pays their entry fees. War rolls her eyes but Pollution lights up, taking the tickets and turning them into so much confetti and flinging the pieces every which way.

The late evening allows the lights on the trees to shimmer and shine. Soft bells tingle throughout the plants from a holiday band somewhere near the center. 

“Oh, thank you for joining us,” Dad says as they find the trio. War blinks. Azrael’s in his human skin and clearly visible, if the way the other patrons are nudging around him and carefully cowering nearby is any indication. Ma’s face is red from some no doubt great and highly inappropriate comment Dad made just before they were spotted.

“Let’s get this over with,” War says. She doesn’t really mean it. 

It’s the first time her family has been all in one place in centuries.


	7. Silent Night

They sit in silence, seven chairs all set out on the bookshop’s roof. True, only six are actually occupied but it’s the thought that counts. It is late and freezing, save for the warm mugs in each of their hands. Or Da’s case, wrapped up with Dad and a large heating pack. But tonight there’s an eclipse and a meteor shower so they’re gonna sit here.

Kushiel takes a deep breath.

Immediately, Famine and Da shush her. “Silent night,” Da orders.

Dad pokes him. Kushiel remains silent anyway. The eclipse is nothing spectacular, lunars are just not that impressive. It’s the month in fast forward, she thinks. But the shower starts soon after. It’s dim to start with, really, the only reason she sees it is because she’s had millennia of practice and she’s got supernatural sight. It’s all the damn light pollution. Cities make for great infection vectors but they do have their downsides.

She catches Sachiel’s eyes, cocks her head meaningfully at them. Sachiel spreads her awareness and attacks the lights. Not the heat or the iceboxes, those stay working in the middle of what becomes a spectacular blackout in London. 

Da watches them inscrutably. Father nudges his attention back to the sky. It’s still not the sky she remembers for most of human history, it’s still too dim and dark. But lights dance on that dark canvas once more, pinpricks of white and blue and gold, twinkling and wobbling. The meteorites shoot across the sky in streaks of white and red.

Kushiel stands and plops onto Famine’s lap. He puts his arms around her wordlessly. She thinks he’s thinking back to those old days too, when things were simpler and none of them had hurt one another yet. She rests the back of her head on his shoulder and pulls Sachiel’s hand between hers and Famine’s. They didn’t have their little nibling back then, either, she silently reminds him.

“Thank you,” Da tells them. Sounds like he means it too.

It’s not the same. It never will be. But this change she can enjoy.


	8. Choir

Pollution doesn’t understand singing. They know that people do it for a variety of reasons but it’s not something that stirs anything from them. It’s too, well, clean when it’s done well. So choirs aren’t their thing. Hours and hours of practice and humans who have no talent or experience can find ways to shift from noise pollution to, well, something ethereal. 

Pollution dislikes the ethereal just as a general rule.

Save Father, of course.

They know that angels have their own choirs as well, that they sing, and it’s the one area in which they can compete with the humans. The singing, not the music itself. Angels don’t have the creativity to make their own music. Demons don’t sing. Save Da, of course. He’s not necessarily good at it but he has a sense of tune and rhythm that escapes most demons, even the dancing ones. They caught him humming and singing the occasional phrases back in the late first century, while they still lived with their parents and their part in the Plan had yet to form. The humans had complimented him and he’d waved them off.

Pollution still doesn’t know why he did.

At any rate, singing isn’t something that Da does regularly or misses when he doesn’t. Father is another story. He doesn’t sing often, he hums and babums along with whatever music he likes and happens to be on. He sings well. Really well. 

He stopped doing it after the Apocalypse, they notice. They bring it up to Famine, then Kushiel when Famine tells them to buzz off. Kushiel hugs them and promises to get to the bottom of it.

Pollution doesn’t see what the fuss is about. They know why Father doesn’t do it. It’s the same reason he didn’t do it back when they were a child: it’s not the music or the singing, it’s the togetherness it represents. When angels sing, they are one, one group, many parts and pieces, harmonizing and coming together. Only he’s not one of them anymore. And he doesn’t need to connect with them anymore.

He severed his ties to Heaven but he has Da, humanity, and the five of them to fall back on. It’s a pitiful excuse for a choir by any definition of the word.

Only he is happier and brighter than they can remember. Da hums more, catches and spreads ear worms faster than Kushiel could spread viruses. Father smiles and lets the music carry him.

Pollution doesn’t understand it but for him, they can tolerate it.


	9. Chestnuts

“These things are inedible,” War declares.

Famine smirks. “That is the point.”

He has several giant horse chestnuts in his arms which he throws into the barrel fire the quartet has going behind a tall building. The nuts crackle, pop, and hiss under the heat. He loves watching them burn.

“What is the point if we can’t eat them?” Pollution asks, sprawled in their seat. They’re playing one of those phone collector games, monster beasts and where to go to them or something like it. Famine doesn’t pay attention unless he can exploit it for his diet fads or the real thing.

“The point, nibling, is the song. The chestnuts just have to be roasting,” he tells them as he takes his own seat.

War rolls her eyes. “What next? Caroling? A turkey?” she needles.

Famine scowls at her. “I do have a plan.”

“I would love to hear it.”

“Uh oh, grab the popcorn, Sachiel, they’ll be a while,” Kushiel fake whispers to Pollution, not bothering to keep her voice down at all.

Famine smirks.

The tall building they are lurking outside of is in fact headquarters to both heaven and hell. Given all the shit said sides have given their parents the last several millennia, well, turnabout is fair play. The roasted chestnuts become projectile missiles in War’s hands, smoking and bursting and raining burning, oozing liquid on impact. 

He goes down below with Kushiel, leaving Heaven to War and Pollution’s tender mercies. They throw, launch, and otherwise ensure their little presents meet all the demons possible. Lord Beelzebub gets a dozen eating through zir office floor and choking zir flies. Kushiel saves the largest for Duke Hastur.

His screams as pieces of nut shrapnel embed in his skin and ooze eats into his toad are delightful. Worth the trip alone. 

Famine may not be on the same team humanity as his parents, but these idiots need to understand just what they’re dealing with. Maybe they can learn and actually pull off the apocalypse next time. 

Given how easy it was to get in here and the lack of resistance so far, he doubts it.


	10. Pine

“It’s not like we even live anywhere,” War is saying as she trudges through the Christmas tree lot with her parents and siblings. Pollution looks like the apocalypse came early, rummaging through tree after tree, encouraging early rot or mountains of dropped needles. They’ve already picked out a dozen trees they want to take, hence War’s comment.

“But the more I take the more they will have to cut down to meet demand,” they explain joyfully as they direct the exasperated and overworked tree attendant to their next selection.

“Or they’ll just go plastic and reuse it next year,” Kushiel points out at Da’s increasingly done look.

Pollution pauses like they hadn’t considered that. “Well, they’ll have to throw it away sometime,” they say after a moment, “Add it to giant landfills covering the land. It’s a win either way.”

Da shakes his head while Father just looks on indulgently. “You did encourage commercialization of the winter holiday season, dear,” he says as he pats Da’s hand.

“Thank you for that,” Pollution says.

They stop in front of a small pine and consider it. “This would fit in the backroom,” they says slowly.

“No, no, no, we are not putting a tree carcass in the bookshop,” Da vehemently cuts them off then turns to Aziraphale, “You’d get pine needles all over the books.”

“Thank you for considering us, dear, but we will pass,” Father politely translates. 

“You still haven’t figured out where you’re putting the ones you’ve already chosen,” Famine helpfully supplies.

“Oh that’s easy, the first three go to Famine’s apartment-”

“No, they don’t.”

“We are encouraging their hobbies, Dumah, remember?” Kushiel says as she pinches Famine’s arm. “Sachiel needs to do something that’s outside work.”

“Again, why are we putting them in my apartment,” he snipes back, “And not in their spaces?”

“Because you are Sachiel’s beloved brother, you actually have an apartment, a large empty one at that, and you didn’t have to raise them.”

Famine rolls his eyes as War snickers. “We’ll help decorate, how’s that? One tree for each of us.”

Famine groans. “That’s seven fucking trees, War, don’t give them any ideas.”

“You own a 7000 square foot penthouse, I think you’ll live,” Kushiel says.

“I can see it now, blood red tree and decorations-”

“And you say I have no taste-”

“You don’t,” Pollution says over him.

“Red lights, army figures, bullets, it’ll be great.”

“Just stop.”

“Ma’s tree full of naked blonde angels-”

“Did you have to say that, War.”

“Oi!”

“No, I’m afraid that’s how he decorates for Valentine’s Day-”

“Hey!”


	11. Caroling

“I’m sorry, what?” War asks, shifting back in surprise.

Ma looks down on her from behind his glasses. “You heard me.”

Yeah, she did, she just can’t believe it. Not only is Ma talking to her _of his own volition_ which honestly hasn’t happened in about seven hundred years but he’s asking her to join in on some holiday event with him later. It’s just mind-boggling.

“I’m not asking for me,” he continues, hands half in his pockets, “Your father would like all of us to do it together.”

“And the others?”

He shrugs. “Kushiel’s on board.” Of course. She’s always been daddy’s little girl, both of them. “Pollution’s curious. Famine will if you do.”

War pauses, takes a deep breath. “And you’re okay with this?” she asks before she can think better of it.

“He wants the family joining the neighborhood caroling.”

“And you?” she presses.

“I’ll live,” he snaps, “Are you in or not?”

War plants her feet, clenches and releases her fists. He catches the movement, his eyes going fully gold. “I’m just doing my job,” she growls.

Because this, what she is, has hung over them for millennia. Oh they’ve had their days or weeks here or there where they could stand to be in the same postal code but this winter has already stretched them thin. And honestly, she’s tired of it. Of his judgement, of his disgust at what she is and what she does. Quite frankly, she’s ready to be done with it.

“You enjoy it, too, making their lives harder or frustrating them.”

“I don’t enjoy killing,” he hisses, “Or hurting them or-”

“It’s your job to make things harder for them,” she says, “It’s my job to give them something to defeat. I don’t start anything, I’m summoned, I do my job, I leave. I’m damned good at it and I am tired of you acting like I’m some awful person for taking pride in it.”

“You’re respon-”

“They’re responsible, it’s all about their choices,” she snaps, “I just lower the threshold. If it wasn’t hard, it wouldn’t be a test.”

He shakes his head. “You’re testing them to destruction.”

“Oh take it up with Pollution, they’ll get ‘em all ‘fore I do.”

She closes the gap between them and gets right in his face. Predator that he is, he doesn’t back off. “I will always be here. I will fight and I will defend and I will kill. One day I might save your precious humanity from the angels and demons who want them dead and maybe you’ll finally fucking thank me.”

His eyes widen. “Wha-what?”

She takes a step back and turns away.

“Forget it.”

“No, no, no, what the hell are you talking about?”

She glares at him. “Which side did you think we were on?” 

They are of humanity, they are part of the species. They may be integral to ending the world but damn if they’re not going to make it hard on every single being caught up in it. She will never go down without a fight. Humanity won’t either.

“What are you saying?”

“You think humanity’s defenseless? That they’ll just be wiped out,” she snaps her fingers, “just like that, that easily, when the time comes? You need four of us to kick off the apocalypse, for god’s sake, why the hell would that be if humanity was just gonna get snuffed out?”

Ma stares at her, gobsmacked, mouth hanging open a little. It would be funny or even cute under other circumstances. As it is, it’s just irritating.

“Then what was that whole thing with the girl and the-”

“It has to be hard,” she reiterates, “Look, Famine may want to end the human race and Pollution may want to rule the world but me? I want to keep living. And I will too, until the last human dies and Azrael takes us both wherever we’re supposed to go. ‘Til then, I make things hell for all sides. Worse than, even,” she finishes with her shark smirk.

Ma watches her for a long, long moment, stares like a snake trying to hypnotize its prey. She refuses to look away.

“Carmen. I want you there. At caroling. Somebody knows your father’s gonna be insufferably cheery and ‘peace on earth and goodwill towards all’ even with all those humans screeching in his ear.”

She blinks and breaks eye contact. Her ears go pink. 

“Well, at least they’ll get to hear a real live angel sing. That might shut them up,” she says in lieu of everything bubbling up under her chest.

Ma scoffs. “Please. They’ll just sing louder to drown him out.”

“Probably.”

“Tomorrow night, then. Five o’clock. Bring your little brother.”

“I will. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“Cool,” Ma pauses and looks at her over his sunglasses again, “Catch you then.”


	12. Wrapping Paper

“We could just miracle it,” Famine says with a groan as Pollution and War battle the stubborn paper, trying to mold it to fit their chosen packages. As Da and Father have chosen Chanukah to celebrate this year, the gifts have to be wrapped separately rather than delivered in a single large postal box Famine would have preferred. Pollution and War have turned his floor into the disorganized chaos of a midnight battlefield, bows strewn every which way, the tape pulled from its roll like intestines. And dear lord the ribbons. Some have already turned to sludge at Pollution’s diligent efforts at wrangling them to order.

Pollution blinks at him, long and slow. “It’s the effort they appreciate,” they say.

They have a point. Anything they could get them they could get themselves with much less hassle.

Still. He chugs the dregs of his beer and joins them on the floor. He is quickly covered in glitter and holiday bows and where the hell did those come from? He pulls a pure black roll of wrapping paper from the ether and slowly, methodically begins cutting it the correct sizes. Pollution hasn’t bothered with that. They’ve ripped, crumpled, and otherwise mangled paper of various sizes, held together on the package only by fifty layers of tape and glue. War’s are not much better; she’s gone for doodling old battles and tactics on her red and snowy landscape paper. Famine peers at them.

“Battle of Belgrade?”

“Nope, that one’s the sacking of Moscow. This one is the Battle of Belgrade.”

“Which sack?”

She shrugs. “Lost count. Sacks just bleed together after a while.”

Ah.

He turns back to his gifts and snarkily asks the air, “And you, milord?”

 **I have already completed mine.** Neatly wrapped gifts, covered in skulls and crossbones (one package’s wrapping paper has been folded into the shape of a skull entirely and Famine’s not sure he wants to know how Death pulled that off) appear on the couch behind him.

“We’ll deal with them,” War promises and Death vanishes once more, leaving Famine alone to tackle his siblings and their mess-making.

He finds he prefers it to the emptiness of his apartment.


	13. Laughter

War laughs a lot. Dark, vicious laughter, soft, satisfied laughter at a job well done. She’s been known to take great joy at the vilest of humanity’s actions. Hey, someone has to. 

But laughter from pure, unbridled joy, uncoupled from her position and job? That is rarer than a mountain collapsing into a molehill. As a child, she had laughed long and hard at Famine and Pestilence’s shenanigans with livestock or getting stuck in the nearby oases or lakes. She had laughed at Azrael’s fascination with venomous creatures, at the number of days he would lose just watching a scorpion or a toad. She laughed when Ma got flustered at Father’s oblivious comments or when Father couldn’t muster words at the humans’ suggestive teasing over him and Ma.

That was millennia ago. She tries not to miss it.

Famine doesn’t laugh at all. He’s not that kind of guy. He is serious. Deadly so. He feels smug or superior every time he gets one up on humanity, more so now that they have such plenty and still starve themselves. He enjoys his siblings’ company, marvels at the work they do. He doesn’t laugh, though. It’s too loud and too much a waste of energy he could be putting elsewhere. 

Kushiel laughs all the time. She does good work, her children burn their way across the globe and do so in ever new and exciting ways. She is the most obvious of her siblings; humans note her joy and laughter and grimly press on, determined to contain and stop her. Good, good, she would tell them, if she thought it wouldn’t lower their will to fight her.

Since retirement, she’s found new things to laugh about. The bungled apocalypse, the internet, the joy and sappiness her parents can no longer hide. 

She laughs because she can.

Pollution doesn’t understand laughter. They are nose to the grindstone for centuries, they have such a lot of work to catch up with their siblings. They find the beauty in corruption and decay and slowly, quietly, build a system whose feedback just builds and builds exponentially. It is a thing of wonder, the world they have constructed.

They don’t laugh, either in satisfaction or joy. Instead, they keep working. They have a lot to prove, to themselves, to their siblings, to their parents. Possibly even the whole human race. They just don’t have time to learn what’s so special about it.

Death laughs the loudest and longest, in the end.


	14. Ice Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild homophobia mentioned (don't worry, Famine deals with the guy).

Famine sighs and readjusts his coat against the freezing sleet which had just started to fall. The task takes a moment due to the dozen cloth bags stuffed to the brim with storm supplies on his arms. Walking beside him, Father burrows more deeply into his coat and scarf. The temperatures aren’t dangerous, yet, just enough to be very uncomfortable to supernatural beings. The sleet is the worrying part. It thickens by the second. They pick up speed as they walk back to the bookshop, Famine grumbling through the growing flurry of white.

“Again, we could have miracled this up. It’s only supposed to last a week anyway, what do we need this much for,” he mutters under his breath. Too many hours crammed among too many humans with their too many wants and desires leave him grumpy and nursing the supernatural equivalent of a hangover.

Father hears him anyway and smiles at him beatifically. “It’s not about the supplies, Dumah,” he says pointedly, a fond look on his face. Famine looks down, his ears warm. “At any rate, Crowley and I are trying to restrict our miracle usage this season. Tends to draw unwanted attention. And it’s always best to be prepared in instances like this.”

Famine barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. They are an angel, a demon, and four/five supernatural entities. They could all probably survive the storm outside in the cold the entire time with no supplies. Well, maybe not Da. Speaking of all of them. “You do know we’re all going to kill each other, trapped inside the bookshop however long this thing lasts.”

“You’re adults, I assume you know your limits and can self-regulate accordingly.”

Father stops, Famine a step later, and removes one of his bags, giving Famine a look. Confused, Famine trades one of his bags for offered one and blinks when he sees what’s inside. It’s an assortment of his favorite fruits, juices, and beers, difficult to get under normal circumstances, impossible when he hasn’t  _ told  _ his father that they are his favorites. Father smirks at his surprise before he smooths it into a real smile. Famine finds himself smiling back. 

Father adjusts his grip on the bags and pulls them up before he places a quick kiss on Famine’s cheek. “Thank you for indulging me, dear,” he says.

“What the fuck, can’t get away from you people even in a fucking blizzard,” cuts through the growing the wind, slurred and high as a human walks past them. Well, tries to.

Famine is not only the concept of literal starvation. His domain, like that of his siblings’, stretches into the metaphorical and spiritual. Pollution, for example, claims dominion over internet discourse, misinformation, disinformation, and anything else which pollutes the world proper, blurring the line between fact and fiction. War’s domain allows her to sense and draw power from everything from violent car crashes to every piece of hateful rhetoric and every call to action. Pestilence knows exactly what will go viral and how, what in the physical world will spread fear, hate, joy, and love. Famine? He senses wants of all kinds. It’s part of what makes humans so annoying. And this human, what he  _ hungers  _ for, looking at his father...

Famine sees black and snaps, dropping the bags like so much dead weight (they don’t spill, however, they know better). He grabs the man’s shoulder and hurls him against the nearest wall, pinning him with a choke hold. It will occur to him later that his teeth have elongated, his body has thinned to skin and bones, and his face has stretched into its corpse-like form. He looks like a demon out of hell or a particularly dark avenging angel.

“He’s my father, you sick fuck,” he snarls, his voice pitched over the howling wind and the man’s choking.

“Dumah, that’s enough,” Father commands. 

Famine actually hears him over the roar of his own outrage.

He ignores him.

“I know what you  _ crave,  _ Thomas Madison,” he growls, every syllable dripping with suggestion. The human’s eyes widen, overcoming his alcoholic haze, and he struggles further. It’s worse than useless.

Famine releases a molecule of his essence. The human breathes it in. Humans wouldn’t note the difference but a thin black aura surrounds the man’s mouth. It’s a small curse, really, compared to what he could do, the one compromise he will make in the face of his father’s disapproval. The human will know only hunger no matter how much he eats for the next week if he’s lucky. A month if he’s not.

Famine shoves him against the wall again as he releases him. “Get out of my sight,” he orders. The human stumbles and trips over himself in his haste to comply. 

Famine’s rage abates as quickly as it came once the human turns the corner. He pulls himself together as Father watches, an inscrutable look on his expressive face. Famine picks up his bags under that look.

They take the rest of the walk in silence, the whipping wind their only accompaniment. Famine wonders if he’s managed to screw everything up once more. He won’t apologize for it, no matter his father’s reaction. Some humans don’t learn.

When they arrive at the bookshop, Father pauses in front of the door. He looks Famine dead in the eye and says, “Thank you for what you did.” Famine’s confusion must show because his father smiles softly at him before his eyebrows furrow. “I do not approve of what you did, though I understand. Thank you for not escalating the situation further.”

Famine blinks, momentarily frozen in place as Father opens the door then beckons him inside. War and Kushiel are arguing in the back over some board game. Famine follows his father into the small kitchenette, where they sort their wares with efficiency borne of practice. True, the last time they did anything like this was six thousand years ago but Famine figures it’s like riding a bike. You never really forget how to do it. War catches his eye as they work and mouths a quick ‘well done.’ Famine merely smirks at her.

Da saunters up and Father greets him with a kiss before going to head off Pollution and their schemes. Da fiddles with a tin of biscuits then slowly, carefully, says, “You look rattled.”

Famine sniffs. “I thought you two lived in a decent part of town,” he says rather than address what happened.

“We do,” Da replies.

Famine snorts. “Could have fooled me.”

“Nowhere’s entirely safe,” Da says, looking at Famine like he can see right through him. “Never has been.”

“You know humans. Can’t get away from them.”

“Nope,” Da says, his voice low as he goes to a cabinet and pulls out a pair of jars. They’re full of jam, strawberry and apple.

Famine raises an eyebrow at him.

“Kelly Johnson from down the street brought them while you were out,” Da replies, eyeing Famine over his glasses. “You know humans.”

Yes, he does.


	15. Wishes

“I wish we’d done this sooner,” Kushiel says as she finishes her latest glass of wine. 

“Same,” War says with a laugh. Da makes some kind of drunk, agreeing noise.

“No, no, I mean, we should have done this centuries ago, gotten together like this,” Kushiel corrects. It’s a good thing her glass is empty because otherwise the accompanying gestures would have spilled wine all over the floor.

War pauses bringing her glass to her lips. She trades looks with Famine, who looks torn between sibling ribbing and actual concern.

Pollution says from the floor, “Nothing was stopping us.”

Da chokes on his wine while Dad titters at him. “What makes you say that?”

Pollution goes still. And not the good kind, but the one where they stiffen like plastic. “I thought no one wanted to be together,” they say slowly.

War winces, Kushiel sniffles, and even Famine looks guilty.

“That’s-”

“I know,” Pollution says, this side of snapping which really concerns War, “I’m the youngest, there are things that I don’t understand.” Bitterness coats their voice. 

War sighs and shifts onto the floor beside them. War has never been a younger sibling, has never really considered how the age gap and being raised alone affected her nibling.

“There was a lot of hurt,” she says, trying to push through years of silence and pain for Pollution. “A lot. We...we weren’t good at not hurting each other.”

“You don’t want to know all of it,” Famine says, almost gently.

Pollution glares at him. “My family wanted to be together and refused to be. And you didn’t _tell_ me.”

War waves off Da and Dad. This is a horsemen thing.

“We didn’t like talking about it. Still don’t. You’ve become such an ingrained part of our lives that we sometimes forget you’re so much younger and don’t see things the way we do.”

“Sachiel,” Kushiel says, her voice too somber and serious for someone who was just sloshed, “we didn’t understand, back then. None of us understood our places in the world. Dad was humanity’s guardian, Da its first tempter. We didn’t understand that we were all working for the same goal. They hated watching humans get hurt because of us. We thought they hated us. And maybe they did, because they didn’t understand that it’s not personal and someone has to do it and humanity needs _something_ pushing them and-”

“We get it, Pest,” Famine interrupts.

“The point,” she says over him, “is that there was a lot of miscommunication and anger for a long time, nibling. Still is, if we went looking for it.”

Pollution rests the back of their head on the edge of the sofa. “Is that why none of you visited while I lived with them?”

They all nod. “I brought you to them, nibling, because I couldn’t raise or protect you right,” War confesses, “That was a few years after the first almost apocalypse. Everything was raw for all of us and- well, I wanted you to have the chance with them that we had, without me ruining it by reminding ‘em what you would be once you grew up.”

“Oh, my dear,” Dad stutters. 

War looks up to find tears in both her parents’ eyes. This will be the last time she will ever speak of it and only because Pollution clearly needs to understand the rift which has only begun healing. She continues, “we ran into each other a few days every century or so. And we could do that. Dad said we were welcome whenever we wanted but for me, I didn’t believe it. Da clearly hated me and everything I do and the two of them spend so much time together...I didn’t want him to choose Da over me.”

“There was never a choice,” Dad says fiercely, “it was always all of us, not one over the others.”

War nods. “I know that now.”

“We cannot change the past. Why dwell on it?” Famine says and picks his beer back up. “We have time.”

“Not as much as we could have had,” Pollution replies.

War pulls them into an embrace. “Better than nothing.”

“And what happens after this season is over?” Pollution says in a rush, “When the ‘season’ wears off and we go our separate ways? Do we go back to that?”

“Not if we don’t want to, Sachiel,” Kushiel says then smirks, “I for one missed you guys. I don’t mind popping in all the time if you don’t mind having me.”

“We don’t mind,” Da says, his voice as serious as the first time he ordered War out of his sight.

It chills and warms War all at once.

“You’ve already created that positive feedback loop,” War tells Pollution, pride brimming in her voice. “It’ll keep going without any more input. It’s made Famine and my jobs easier than they’ve been in centuries.”

“Almost too easy, Pollution,” Famine says, smirking, “You’ve hacked the game.”

Pollution smiles into War’s shoulder. They don’t say it but War’s starting to think they built their system that way on purpose.

“Let’s enjoy ourselves for now and leave the future for tomorrow, okay?” War asks.

Pollution nods.


End file.
